


a little feral (as a treat)

by fensandmarshes



Category: Dream SMP (Video Blogging RPF), Hermitcraft RPF
Genre: Chaos, Deity Charles | Grian, Deity Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Deity TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Fluff and Crack, Friendship, Gen, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Winged Charles | Grian, Winged Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Winged TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 22:39:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29000076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fensandmarshes/pseuds/fensandmarshes
Summary: The first time the kid appears, Grian is perched on top of his mansion, considering the great windows he may or may not leave open in the roof. He moves a little closer to the edges, light-footed; it’s at this moment that a blur of red and white falls out of the sky and tumbles right through the holes that are the object of Grian’s consternation.Huh,Grian thinks.If this is what he thinks it is, he isdelighted. It’s been a long time since he’s come across a godling, and little gods don’t fall out of the sky near well-established gods of chaos unless they, too, have an inclination towards causing mischief and there’s some kind of godborne bond at work. So he moves a little closer to the crumpled heap of presumably-godling, crouches, and prods their shoulder with a wingtip.Or: Tommy becomes a trickster god. Grian is the universe's mentor for him. It goes about as well as you would expect.
Relationships: Charles | Grian & TommyInnit, Grian & Mumbo Jumbo & Iskall85, No Romantic Relationship(s), TommyInnit & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 109
Kudos: 667





	a little feral (as a treat)

**Author's Note:**

> (yes i didn't use the canon tag for the boys. yes it's because their real names intimidate me. VIKTOR???????????? nah man ao3 has tag wranglers for a reason and i'm just gonna let them do their job)
> 
> hi!! what the Fuck is this fic!!! listen, space on discord said "grian and tommy chaos gods found family" and i HAD to write it, so, uh. here you go.
> 
> mild, mild spoilers for hermitcraft as of grian's 64th episode and for dsmp as of tommy's finale-getting-the-discs-back stream. but like, very mild. this fic is my extrapolation as to a future that just kind of vibes along without suffering too many world-shattering events in either storyline, so everything is fluffy and very little hurts.

The first time the kid appears, Grian is perched on top of his mansion, considering the great windows he may or may not leave open in the roof. The thing is, they look not so good from outside, but - so pretty! From within! And he can just zoom out the top of his mansion whenever he wants! He moves a little closer to the edges, light-footed; it’s at this moment that a blur of red and white falls out of the sky and tumbles right through the holes that are the object of Grian’s consternation.

He blinks. It’s not anyone he recognises, and - something, like a tugging sensation in his chest, tells him this is important.

Grian steps off the edge and flares his wings at the last moment, turning his nosedive into a shallow glide. His feet are gentle on the ground the moment he alights. The person - yes, Grian confirms, no one he knows - is limp on the ground in a pile of feathers and irritation, and as Grian watches, the person turns over, groaning, rubbing hands over their face. They’re white and blond-haired and weirdly tall, and their wings are just a little too expressive to be elytra.

_ Huh, _ Grian thinks.

If this is what he thinks it is, he is  _ delighted. _ It’s been a long time since he’s come across a godling, and little gods don’t fall out of the sky near well-established gods of chaos unless they, too, have an inclination towards causing mischief and there’s some kind of godborne bond at work. So he moves a little closer to the crumpled heap of presumably-godling, crouches, and prods their shoulder with a wingtip.

“Psst,” he says.

The godling shrieks. Grian watches them, bemused, for a moment - they jump to their feet, wings flaring out behind them, and makes another strange, half-hyperventilating shrieking sound. He lets them wear themself out a bit, looking around in alarm, and then -

“Who  _ are _ you,” the godling demands.

He grins. “I’m Grian,” he says. “Nice to meet you.”

“Where am I?” There’s a pause. “Don’t lie to me, cause I’ll - know, okay? I’m very smart, bitch!”

“This is my mansion,” Grian says helpfully. “You fell out of the sky.”

“Huh,” the kid says - because they  _ are _ just a kid, Grian can tell, despite the height. All acne scars and wide eyes and still growing into their lanky frame. The kid does that weird hyperventilating noise again - a laugh? Grian thinks it might be a laugh - and then says, high-pitched, “And why do I have  _ wings?” _

Ha! He  _ knew _ they weren’t elytra. “I didn’t realise you were  _ that _ new to this,” Grian marvels, and the kid scowls back. “He backtracks. “Is this your first time?”

“My first time  _ what?” _

“Being teleported into the vicinity of a god of similar inclinations to you so that you can learn your own creed from someone more experienced in the ways of causing chaos?” Grian offers. “Sometimes the universe gives you a couple trial runs before it settles on a proper mentor for the godborne bond.” He stands up, and offers the kid a hand.

The kid takes it doubtfully. “I don’t trust you at all,” they inform Grian, matter-of-fact.

Grian resists the urge to say  _ aww. _ The kid has the callouses of a warrior rather than a builder, and he’d rather not lose seventy-three levels to a baby chaos god who got a little jumpy. “That’s all right,” he says, and grins again.

The kid scoffs, opening their mouth to speak - and vanishes.

Well, then.

Grian really does want to fix those windows.

The second time the kid appears, Grian gets a little more warning - there’s about ten entire seconds of very loud screaming before the kid plummets face-first into the sea beside Keralis’s city. Grian regards them primly from his perch on top of a building, and waits for them to drag themself onto the shore before he glides down. After all, he doesn’t want to get his feathers wet.

“You again,” the kid accuses, once they’re finished coughing and spluttering.

“Uh huh,” Grian says. “What’s your name?”

The kid glares at him. “Tommy.”

“Do you have pronouns you want me to use?”

“I am a man,” the kid says vehemently, and then, when Grian only regards them for another moment, “uh, he and him. Um. And you?”

“Whatever’s convenient,” Grian says flippantly. “Tommy, I’m going to assume you won’t be here for very long. Want me to show you how to use those wings?”

Tommy starts. “You can see them?”

Grian blinks, mildly nonplussed. “Why wouldn’t I see them?”

“Tubbo and Sam -” Tommy shakes his head forcefully. “Never mind. Yes. Come on, Big G, let’s fly to the fucking moon -”

“Not quite,” Grian says, but he’s grinning. Oh, this kid is  _ absolutely _ a little chaos godling. He doesn’t doubt Tommy’s a holy terror on his home server, and the thought of it is so wonderful it nearly brings a tear to Grian’s eye.

They spend an hour or so maneuvering around Keralis’s wonderfully complex city, all full of nooks and crannies and high things to jump from. Grian is conscious of the possibility of being seen, though - godling apprenticeships bypass server whitelists, but it is still mostly a secret that Grian’s tricksterness is more than just a personality trait, and he’d like to keep it that way for now. Not because he’s worried his friends won’t accept him, but because he still hasn’t worked out what the funniest way to tell them would be and he is  _ not _ mucking up that once-in-a-lifetime opportunity before he’s ready. So he takes Tommy into the hills behind his mansion, and the two of them settle for a moment.

Then,  _ finally, _ Tommy asks, “So why the  _ fuck _ did I grow wings again?”

“The universe decided you embodied an ideal enough to uphold it,” Grian says. His wings move with him when he shrugs. Elytra don’t do that - sure, they adapt to their holder, but despite all that they’re function and nothing more. “And it’s been throwing you here so that I can show you the ropes. If it happens enough then it’s decided I’m the best one for you, and that’s called a godborne bond.”

Tommy pauses, taking that in. Then he does the hyperventilating laugh thing again, like it’s a coping mechanism. “God,” he says, forcefully, and takes another breath, “of, of fucking what?”

Grian smiles again, a little devious. “Causing problems on purpose,” he says, “to keep things fun and interesting.”

There is a split second before Tommy disappears; in it, Grian just barely manages to catch the look of dawning glee on Tommy’s face.

The third time, Grian feels a distinct tugging in his chest, one he realises very quickly is a sign that a) that godborne bond has definitely taken root and b) Tommy is probably going to fall out of the sky imminently. He sighs, looking around the shopping district - this really isn’t ideal. But then he hears, clear as day, Tommy’s voice -

“Not  _ now, _ ” Tommy protests, “I’m in the middle of something!”

There is a moment where everything pauses, as though the universe is contemplating. And then -

And then Grian is  _ plucked _ right out of his barge, deposited in a sky he doesn’t know above a land he doesn’t recognise. He spreads his wings out of habit - though he’s as comfortable in freefall as he is on solid ground, he should really have a look around. Buy himself some time to take everything in. He’s far above the ugliest crater he’s ever seen in his  _ life, _ drifting slowly towards the bedrock at the bottom; instinct guides him to veer left, and as he turns sharply midair he can see a small cluster of people gathered along the edge of the giant hole. One of them has wings.

He tucks his own closer to his body to speed his progress towards them, only flaring them again at the last moment so that he can alight next to them without so much as a jolt to his knees. “Hello,” he says brightly, raising a hand in greeting.

Tommy’s eyes have just about bugged out of his head. To Tommy’s right and Grian’s left, there’s another kid who looks about Tommy’s age, with shaggy brown hair and a comically confused expression; to Tommy’s left is an adult who somehow manages to be even taller than Tommy, which is quite frankly ridiculous. Grian has to crane his neck just to see the person’s face (hostile and scowling, which is mildly worrying). He thinks they’re wearing a beanie, but they are genuinely too tall for him to be sure.

“How are you not dead?” the other kid says blankly. “Also, who are you?”

“I’m Grian,” says Grian. He trades glances with Tommy, who seems very alarmed but not necessarily  _ worried. _ “And you?”

Tommy jolts, with such speed that it’s almost startling, into action. “These are my friends,” he says, and the tall person gives Tommy a weird sideways look. (Something about the tall one sends a chill down Grian’s spine, a strange flinch along his wings; they have the feeling of someone previously headed for godhood whose path was forcibly averted, and something else is  _ off _ about them that Grian can’t quite place.) “This is Tubbo,” Tommy continues, and Grian forces himself to pay attention. “He’s very annoying. And this is Wilbur. He was dead but now he isn’t, and he likes to sing about women.”

Well. A recent resurrection would certainly explain the  _ oddness. _

“Tommy,” the tall, not-dead one, Wilbur, begins, “who -”

“I have actually never met this man before in my life,” Tommy says hastily, but from the dual skeptical looks his friends give him, neither of them are convinced. “Well,” he adds, pitchy, “maaaybe onceortwice,” words alternating between high and drawn out and in sudden tumbles like breaking dams. “Uhhh, you remember I was saying about -”

“Oh,” the other kid, Tubbo, says brightly. “Does he have invisible wings like you said you did and that’s why he didn’t die of fall damage?”

(Absently, Grian glances over his shoulder at his wings. They most certainly are not invisible. Weird.)

“Sorry,” says the tall one. Wilbur. “ _ What?” _

“I’m getting the feeling this isn’t a good time,” Grian says dubiously. 

Sure enough, the universe obliges the moment he makes the mental equivalent of the pleading emoji at it - there’s that tugging feeling again, and he just has the time to whisper “Hermit Challenges!” under his breath out of habit before he’s back in his barge, switching servers in the time it takes to blink.  _ Well, that was interesting, _ he thinks, and goes back to counting his diamonds.

He hopes Tommy doesn’t have  _ too _ much explaining to do.

From then on, it’s like the universe, or maybe Tommy, has a sixth sense as to the most inconvenient possible times for a small gremlin to drop out of the sky, completely bypass the Hermitcraft whitelist, and make his presence known. Case in point: it’s the first time Grian has gotten to properly hang out with Mumbo or Iskall in  _ months. _ His plan was to build a secret base in the Pacific complex - up the ante, and all that - but he’d ended up accidentally ruining some probably very complex redstone, and calling Mumbo and Iskall up to come fix it. Mumbo’s arm-deep in circuitry now, while Grian stands off to the side, a little embarrassed, and Iskall has  _ just _ opened his mouth to say something when Tommy pops into existence just below the Pacific skyscraper’s ceiling and immediately plummets to the ground at Grian’s feet.

Iskall blinks. Grian fidgets. Mumbo doesn’t even look up from his cryptocurrencies. Tommy picks himself up, claps his hands, clears his throat, and roars, “What is  _ up, _ boys!”

“Tommy,” Grian chastises, before he can think better of it. “It’s rude to assume.”

Iskall does a very visible double-take, looking blankly between Grian and this strange winged non-whitelisted gremlin who has just fallen out of the sky. Grian considers making something stupid up for a moment - “I turned Pesky Bird into a human”, or something equally good - but even if tricks run in his blood and his very soul, Iskall and Mumbo are his friends and they do kind of deserve the truth.

He glances at Tommy for a moment, just because he really is  _ far _ too tall for someone who is still a teenager, and then sighs. “Mumbo,” he says, and Mumbo stumbles backwards out of his redstone circuitry with a very confused expression, “Iskall, this is Tommy. He’s from another server -”

“The Dream SMP,” Tommy puts in helpfully, which almost makes Grian choke on air, because  _ hold on, isn’t that where -? _

He perseveres boldly on. “- he’s here because godlings just show up like this when they’re new to the whole deity schtick. Like an apprenticeship. I’m teaching him my chaotic ways.”

There’s a moment where that just sits in the air, and Grian has to fight the urge to just up and fly away to avoid the awkwardness of it all; he’s being vague, he knows, but both Iskall and, as much as he likes to deny it, Mumbo, are smart enough to put together what he’s implying. The silence stretches onwards, and Grian refuses to be upset.

At last, Mumbo shrugs and breaks it. “Nice to meet you, dude,” he says to Tommy. “But I kind of have to fix some redstone that  _ someone _ threw a music disc into and then spilt water on, so if you don’t mind -”

“Hey, at least it wasn’t a potato this time,” Grian defends weakly, at the same time as Tommy visibly perks up, feathers fluffing, and says “Music disc?!”

As Tommy dashes after Mumbo to bother him some more, Grian turns nervously to meet Iskall’s eye. There’s dawning understanding there, and - thank goodness - a spark of mirth, rather than mistrust or irritation or any other ugly emotion Grian doesn’t feel like dealing with today and doesn’t want to be the cause of in his friends ever. Then: “Cool,” says Iskall, shrugging, and relief washes over Grian like a breaking wave.

Mumbo is hunched back into his redstone now, a slightly miserable air to the curl of his shoulders as Tommy talks non-stop into his ears; Grian desperately wants to let it happen, but knows he probably shouldn’t. (Maybe that’s what he’s meant to impress upon Tommy this time. The importance of knowing when  _ not _ to trust your trickster instincts; being able to recognise when it is more important to be a friend than it is to be a god.) He gives Iskall an apologetic glance before darting over himself and grabbing Tommy by the arm.

The intention is to tug him gently away. He pauses, concerned, when Tommy visibly flinches.

Oh, it’s well-concealed. There’s just the barest moment where Tommy’s endless stream of talking falters, but then he takes up his tirade again - something about Tubbo knowing all about redstone traps? - barely a second later. The damage is done, though. Grian lets go, sees the look the kid throws him which is somewhere between terror and a scalding glare, and takes the hint.

Wow. He did not plan on getting so attached to this godling so very fast, but … he kind of wants to bring a little disaster whoever hurt Tommy to make him flinch like that. And not in the kind of way you can laugh at after the fact.

(Later that day, he and Tommy are sat on top of the Pacific roof while Mumbo and Iskall ‘talk business’ on the other side of the pool. Tommy says, loud and full of bluster, “I am not talking about it.”

Grian raises an eyebrow. “Okay,” he says. It’s not like there isn’t other stuff to talk about. “You, uhhh, you said the Dream SMP?”

“Yeah,” Tommy agrees. There’s a gleam to his eye. “So?”

“I think - that’s where someone I know is staying at the moment,” Grian says slowly, but, well. If his old friend really  _ is _ hanging out on the same server as Tommy and Tommy doesn’t  _ know, _ then he’s probably concealing his identity, his wings, on purpose - why else would two people on a thirty-person server not interact once in the several weeks it’s been since Tommy’s first step on the path to godhood? - and Grian really doesn’t want to ruin someone’s plans by accident. 

Still, though.

Maybe it’s natural instinct to worry for your chaos godling/apprentice/protege/new friend, or maybe Grian is just very soft, or maybe Tommy just brings out the elder sibling instinct in everyone around him. Whichever way, he just - hopes Tommy is able to keep his head afloat. 

Tommy’s visits wax, wane, peak, and slowly begin to decline in frequency. (Occasionally, but not frequently, it goes the other way and Grian is yanked forcefully into a world that is a) not his own and b) ugly as … well. Very obviously not populated, for the most part, by builders.) One memorable time, however, Tommy must visit while Grian is asleep - he wakes up the next morning to find a big hole in the middle of his roof and a boulder-sized lump of obsidian and blackstone sitting on the floor of his mansion. The hole features some admirable, if slightly sad, attempts at making it look like a meteor crashed through Grian’s roof - some magma and coal blocks, flame scattered across the place, taking advantage of the lack of fire tick - and Grian is  _ so _ touched that Tommy took his advice to heart (“griefing is always funnier when you actually put effort into the build”) that he almost forgets to retaliate.

_ Almost. _

He can’t access the Dream SMP through any normal means, given it’s a whitelist-only server just like Hermitcraft, which means he has to rely on his godborne bond with Tommy (rapidly fading as the kid, terrifyingly, comes into his own as a trickster) to get him there. Opportunity strikes about a week later, on one of the rare occasions that Grian is paying enough attention to be able to sense the world-shift coming. He grasps at the link the universe is using to drag Tommy towards him, says  _ not quite, _ and holds on tight as, instead of Tommy coming to Hermitcraft, Grian is flung forcefully into the sky above the Dream SMP.

Miraculously, Tommy - who seems to be caught up in a trident race with that other friend of his, Tubbo - doesn’t actually notice Grian as he appears far above their heads. Which is  _ brilliant. _

Grian, mid-air, rubs his hands. The peskiest of birds is back in business.

He hasn’t spent enough time on this server to know where anything is yet - in fact, pretty much all he knows is that the End must be disabled, since no one can see his wings. (Usually, people assume they’re just elytra, doing as elytra do and melding to their wearer’s form; in a place where that’s just not a possibility, he supposes “there’s nothing there” is the next best thing when it comes to plausible deniability.) Regardless, what he  _ can _ find, without difficulty, is the crater that goes to bedrock. Still ugly as sin. Still completely lacking in adequate terraforming. Still as raw and boring as the day it was ripped into existence by TNT, or so Grian assumes from the obsidian framework in the sky which  _ no one has even taken down. _

Honestly! It hurts Grian’s poor little builder heart to even  _ look _ at it.

He’s halfway through giving the edge of the cliff some shape - a little overhang to the lip of it, dirt plastered against the unforgiving stone in the name of texture - when there’s the sound of wingbeats from behind him. “Hey Tommy,” he says absently, focus caught by the precise combination of coarse and regular dirt he’s placing along the cliffs.

“Sorry - Tommy?” comes a voice that Grian doesn’t know.

It startles him enough that he falls off his scaffolding. The air doesn’t alarm him - it’s easy to spread his wings and navigate himself back out of the crater - but his heart is still going incredibly fast, mostly from the shock. “You scared me!” he accuses the interloper, alighting on the singed grass he’d been considering trying to bone-meal back to health and coming face-to-face with -

Huh. Well.

A fully-fledged trickster god stands there, half-bemused and half-gleeful upon seeing Grian; his wings are held open and friendly behind him, head tilted, eyes agleam. For his part, Grian shuffles his own wings, mildly self-conscious. It’s been a while, but - the face is familiar. And the last time they met, Grian replaced all of Phil’s Totems of Undying with loaves of bread renamed to  _ Grain  _ and a smiley face carved in the crust.

It’s been a while, but no trickster ever forgets a prank. Grian’s gotta be on the look-out for retaliation.

“How are you  _ here, _ ” says Phil, expression more and more full of just-restrained glee with every passing moment.

Grian snorts. “Godborne bond,” he admits.

Phil’s eyes widen. “You said  _ Tommy  _ -”

“You  _ know _ him?” Grian says, voice suddenly high-pitched, and then could kick himself. Of course Phil knows Tommy, this is a thirty-person server; everybody knows everybody. The real question is how the hell they haven’t interacted once in the last few months. Some kind of falling-out, maybe. Or, like … retirement?

“This is fucking  _ brilliant, _ ” says Phil, who Grian hasn’t seen in several hundred years. And then he spreads his wings, flies off, without even so much as a goodbye.

“Rude!” Grian shrieks after him.

He doesn’t even get to finish his terraforming job before the link frays, and he’s pulled back to Hermitcraft with a jolt. But at least he’s maybe possibly indirectly caused Tommy to actually talk with someone who he apparently knows but hasn’t seen in months. The Dream SMP is very confusing. Grian has given up on trying to understand it.

Months later, they’re halfway through stealing all the doors on the Dream SMP when Tommy mentions that his primary feathers have come into their full colour.

“Oh,” Grian says. He pockets the spruce trapdoor that forms the sole entrance to Wilbur’s (Tommy solely refers to him as ReAliveNotDeadbur, out of spite, apparently) weird base in the middle of a tree trunk. Over the months, Tommy’s wings have been gradually changing colour, from white to a pale tawny gold marked by crimson; his primaries haven’t changed, not yet, not until now. But Grian glances over - Tommy’s still holding the iron door they stole from Snowchester - and, true to his word, the kid’s primary feathers are deep, dark red.

“Aw,” Grian murmurs. “You know what that means, right?”

“Yeeeeeeah,” Tommy says, drawn-out. 

Grian blinks - it’s not like Tommy to be so unabashedly dejected. Maybe Grian has been a positive influence on him after all. “It’s not like I’ll never see you once the bond is over,” he reasons - because if Tommy has truly come into his wings, well, he doesn’t exactly need a mentor any more. “We’ll be around a while yet, you know.”

(He and Tommy had had the  _ lifespan of a god _ chat a few weeks ago. Unsurprisingly, Tommy has straight-up refused to process it.)

“Damn,” Tommy says, trying for his usual exuberance and failing spectacularly.

Grian hops down from the branches of ReAliveNotDeadbur’s tree, tilting his head. “Hey,” he says. “You should name the next war that you start after me. The Grian Wars. Your friend can write  _ that _ in his history books.”

Tommy cracks a smile at that. Then, because he never does things by halves, dissolves into that all-encompassing, wheezing laughter, the type where he sounds like a deflating whoopee cushion. “The Big G wars,” he manages, somehow, and then he’s off again.

Grian waits, bemused. He does not understand Tommy, not one bit, which is really half the fun and all of the point. When it seems like Tommy is done, he points out, “That wasn’t even funny.”

Tommy shrugs, vehemently nonchalant. Suddenly, without any warning, Grian’s getting pulled into a fierce hug - enclosed by wings and arms both, and Tommy clutches him so forcefully he worries he’ll break for the brief moment before Tommy releases him. Then, just as abruptly, Tommy says “That didn’t happen.”

Um. “Okay,” says Grian. For something to do in the ensuing awkwardness, he stretches - wings out behind him, arms towards the sky - and is  _ this _ close to letting it go when he sees the telltale shuffle to Tommy’s feet.

“I’ll miss you too,” he says, faintly surprised that it isn’t obvious. “That thing we pulled to bamboozle Bdubs was literally the greatest thing I’ve done in  _ years. _ ”

“Huh,” Tommy says; he’s visibly perked up almost instantly, ricocheting skilfully like a pinball between various emotional extremes. Very chaotic of him. His voice rings with poorly concealed delight and smugness: “I mean, that  _ was _ pretty fucking funny, you gotta admit.”

Grian frowns. “Yes, I - I did admit it. That was what that was.”

“Oh, right,” Tommy says. The silence that follows is brief, and then Tommy claps his hands. “Well! Since we don’t have much time, maybe, I don’t know, anyway - do you want to -”

“I  _ desperately _ want,” Grian says, “to figure out if I can steal a door to that big prison.”

Tommy chortles. “Let’s fucking do it,” he howls, and launches himself into the sky without so much as waiting for Grian to agree. Grian’s so proud.

“... Whoa,” he says out loud. “Didn’t mean for that to be so genuine.”

He … is, though.

After all: it is a lovely day on the Dream SMP, and this is likely the last time a godborne bond will serve as Grian’s sneaky way around the whitelist. And he has trained his little gremlin well. And, most importantly: he is a horrible, pesky bird.

He spreads his wings and leaps into the sky, mind fixed on his single goal: just how many doors can one (1) prison have?

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!! since this is going to be a very niche fic, i'd really appreciate if anyone who's made it this far would leave me a comment, but you don't have to of course <3


End file.
